Tuesday Morning - Writing Prompt Exercise

When we were in Vermont one day, stopping at this yard sale and that one, a slow, acquisitional tour, I saw a woman. She was not too tall and not too stout; her hair more steel than gray and short. She wore a navy fleece and jeans and Birkenstocks. I liked her instantly because she walked with purpose. It took her only a half dozen strides - long, confident - to cross the church yard. There she stood, facing Mary. She closed her eyes, laid her hand atop Mary's head, and for a moment praye...